


A One Man Army

by TalksToSelf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Forgiveness, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sex, There isn't any punching - why isn't there any punching?, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalksToSelf/pseuds/TalksToSelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock comes home expecting to find a broken man. Instead he finds a soldier. A man who took on the world single handedly - and won.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A One Man Army

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cumbernuts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cumbernuts).
  * Translation into Français available: [A One Man Army](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884111) by [NekoJilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoJilly/pseuds/NekoJilly)



> For Cumbernuts

  
  
A hero's welcome is for a hero, and Sherlock Holmes would never class himself as a hero. Getting off the plane in Heathrow airport he felt tired, worn, much older than his years and anything but heroic, yet he was greeted by a small fanfare of security guards and a bevy of personal assistants, who ushered him into the waiting black car. He barely recognized himself as the reflection in the rained upon window in the back of the government issue vehicle, his once black curls now a rusty ginger and much shorter than before he'd begun his journey – had it really been three years?  
  
Sherlock's skin was as pale as ever, though his nose was a little more crooked, having had it broken on two occasions, he had gained a tiny scar above and disappearing into his left eyebrow, and had all but forgotten the small silver earring piercing his right lobe, little differences surely, but differences all the same. The thing that had changed most about Sherlock's appearance over the past three years was nothing to do with dye or war-wounds, Sherlock did not need to be in possession of a human heart to see the change in his eyes. Once so full of life, the thrill of the chase and the love of playing the game, his formerly sparkling orbs were hollow, the eyes of a man who had killed, eyes that looked as though they belonged instead to a soldier, a man who had seen bloodshed and terror beyond his years.  
  
He slipped out of the black car and into the 'secure location' Mycroft had insisted Sherlock attend the moment he returned to London, by now Sherlock was so used to the cloak and dagger he barely batted an eyelid at the secrecy.  
“Welcome home, little brother.” Mycroft announced the moment the beefiest security guard had escorted Sherlock to a large, open plan room and left the brothers alone. Mycroft was sat in a comfortable looking armchair, umbrella propped up by the side of it. Three years had changed his elder brother very little, perhaps slightly greyer, very slightly thinner, but looking no worse for wear.  
"Home." Sherlock repeated softly, because it was true, London was his home, but not this place, not this cold, austere, imposing looking building filled with sensible furniture and matching carpets. Home was 221b Baker Street, with its eclectic compositions of car-boot sale furniture, the curtains adorned with cigarette burns, and a carefully placed rug to cover the time Sherlock had spilled acid. Home was a skull on the mantel, body parts in the fridge, home was tea and cigarettes and John... yes. Most definitely, Sherlock's home was wherever John Watson had laid his fingerprints.  
  
"You've been very busy." Mycroft acknowledged, Sherlock nodded and collapsed into one of the ridiculously pert armchairs.  
"Managed to take out Sullivan and Ivan whilst in Ireland." Sherlock said conversationally, glancing around the room for clues as to where he was.  
"What brings you to London then? You normally play as far away from your own doorstep as possible..." Mycroft said, pouring them each a mug of just-boiled tea, as though that would soothe his little brother's frazzled nerves.  
"I'm done." Came Sherlock's response as he eyed the cup hesitantly, he would not put it past Mycroft to drug his tea to force the detective to sleep or spark his appetite.  
"It's clean." Mycroft reassured him, reading his mind the way he always did. "Done? You managed to find everyone?"  
"The ones that you didn't get, yes." Sherlock sighed heavily and gave in to the warmth of the mug in his hand, sipping tentatively at it. His talented tongue could detect no poisons.  
  
  
"You may find it hard to believe, but I do not abuse my authority to bump off your enemies, Sherlock." Mycroft said grimly. Sherlock glowered at him in return.  
"You've taken great lengths to ensure that you and I are not overheard, there's no sense in denying..."  
"Their deaths were not my doing, nor the doing of any of my men." Mycroft's response was slightly stony.  
"Then who?" Sherlock demanded, to which Mycroft smirked.  
"You have a very good friend in Doctor Watson." He put forth enigmatically, and Sherlock froze in raising the cup to his lips once more.  
"John?" He whispered in surprise. "Why? How?"  
"He was... broken." Mycroft said, uncertain as to how his brother would react. "For the six first months after your death he barely left the flat, only ventured out for therapy and to get food in when he absolutely needed it." Sherlock cringed slightly, truthfully that had been what he expected but it didn't make it hurt any less. John Watson, always so strong, made weak by Sherlock's gambit. "Then one day he just... snapped out of it. Started vanishing off to Russia for weeks on end, America, Portugal. 'Holidays' he told everyone, 'needed a break' he said..."  
  
"Russia... Belinsky?" Sherlock asked incredulously. Mycroft nodded.  
"He's been out there, disabling Moriarty's web one thread at a time, exactly as you have been. More often than not he was a few steps behind but on a few occasions he was just ahead of you." Sherlock frowned, he had wanted John out of danger, wanted him kept safe, his displeasure was evident on his face. "And before you ask why I didn't try to stop him - I did. The man is as stubborn as you, a perfect match you might say." Sherlock did not miss the slight twinkle in Mycroft's eye as he hinted, and only glowered.  
  
"Doctor Watson possesses the brilliance of an ordinary man, shows exactly how far a normal person will go. I refused to aide him with his mission, he wanted the same things you did, false passports, identity changes, alibis, somehow he managed on his own."  
"On his own?" Sherlock questioned in disbelief.  
"Well, I may have turned a blind eye to a few inconsistencies reported to me from varying airports, but for the most part he's done this on his own accord." Sherlock suddenly found he didn't know what to do with his hands, having placed his cup on the end table beside him he fidgeted out of habit, his left hand found solace in his hair (it felt wiry from the number of times he'd dyed it) while his right hand squeezed his knee.  
"How badly injured?" He requested, he knew this game, he knew John, John would be in the thick of it, fighting dirty if he needed to.  
"He received a stab wound to the abdomen whilst in Amadora, and was rather ironically shot in the leg on his first trip to Florida. He recovered well." Came the information, Sherlock nodded slowly. He didn't know whether to be mortified that John had been injured fighting Sherlock's battles, or oddly proud of his friend and former flatmate.  
  
"Where is he now?" He asked, finally stilling his hands and settling them on his lap.  
"Last I heard - Belfast." Sherlock bit his lip, how many times since his departure had John been in the same city as him? Having just returned from Belfast, Sherlock knew Sullivan and Ivan were dispatched - John would discover this very soon if he had not already.  
"Does he know..." Sherlock started but trailed off as Mycroft shook his head.  
"That you are alive? No. Though he has found it rather suspicious that half the people he was tracking wound up dead days before he could reach them, I believe he thinks it is my doing." Sherlock nodded again, took a deep breath and got to his feet. "What are you doing now, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, concern in his tone.  
"Now, Mycroft? I am going home." Sherlock said gravely, and swept from the room.  
  


* * *

  
Thankful not to have met Mrs Hudson on the way in (She was getting on a bit, he didn't want to give her a heart attack) Sherlock used his old key (the post-mortem had noted his keys to be mysteriously absent from his so-called body) to let himself in to 221b, he traced his worn fingers over the familiar wallpaper in the hall, five years ago he and John had fallen against this wall in fits of laughter... so very long ago.  
  
He let his fingers dance over the bannister on the stairs, and ran them over the panelling on the door before he unlocked it. The flat had changed very little, and showed distinct signs of not being lived in lately, the dust was an inch thick on the mantel, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at the skull John had apparently never found the time nor heart to remove.  
"Hello, old friend." He whispered, stroking it fondly before continuing to survey the room. Although the flat was quite obviously unattended, one of John's jumpers was thrown casually over the armchair as though he had just left the room, and Sherlock's obsession with touch did not falter, brushing his hand over the thick cable knit, drinking in his old home through his finger tips.  
  
221b did not feel right, above all it did not smell right, 221b should smell of cigarettes and tea and John and it did not. Deciding to rectify what he could immediately, Sherlock slipped a packet of Marlboros from his pocket and sparked up, taking great care to blow out thick clouds of smoke over several surfaces before filling the kettle. It rattled appreciatively into action after so long spent dormant, and Sherlock fixed himself a tea in one of John's favourite mugs before settling himself into John's favourite armchair. Now all he had to do was wait.  
  
For three days Sherlock remained as silent as possible, he heard Mrs Hudson clattering about downstairs and a small part of him longed to go and talk to her, tell her he was alive, but he knew it had to be John who found out first. John may never forgive him as it was, never mind if he found out Sherlock was alive from someone else. He spent an hour or so on day two removing his earring and studying the scarring and healing rate of the tissue, but he didn't find any great joy from it. Sherlock paced quietly, the flat was mostly devoid of food, he'd made himself some out-of-date instant rice two days ago but it had made him feel queasy so had not attempted to eat anything else since. He ran out of cigarettes on the third day, which frustrated him. He was almost antsy enough from withdrawal to risk going out and getting some himself when he heard the door go downstairs and Mrs Hudson's cheery greeting of  
"Hello John! How was Ireland?"  
  
Sherlock froze, unsure how to present himself, barely listening as John lied through his teeth and told their landlady all about the wonderful holiday he'd had in Ireland. If it were anyone else, Sherlock would go for the dramatic, start playing his violin (which he had found on day one, tucked under John's bed of all places) to lure John upstairs, sweep out from behind the china cabinet in a flurry to announce his presence or sit with his back to the door and speak when John entered the flat. As it was John, Sherlock did none of these things, he stood there, tall and awkward, a few feet in front of the door so that John would see him the minute he opened it. He heard familiar footsteps on the hall stairs (not too familiar though, having been shot in the leg, John was now slightly favouring one leg over the other, giving his footfall an uneven 'thud').  
  
He heard John set down his suitcase outside the flat door, but there was no jangle of keys to signal he intended to enter, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, wondering what could be causing trepidation before realising with a sudden start that John had evolved. John was no longer blindly trusting, he had learned to be suspicious, he had noticed something to indicate his flat's security had been breached. Sherlock felt a giddy thrill realizing John had trained himself to observe the little details, the smell of stale cigarette smoke must be present on the landing. His heart leapt into his throat as he finally heard the door slowly unlocking, then suddenly it was kicked open and there was a gun pointed at his face.  
  
Sherlock raised both his hands in surrender as John stepped into the flat, wide eyed. He kicked the door closed behind him but kept his gun trained on Sherlock, for the longest time there was silence as John slowly circled Sherlock, never lowering his gun. Sherlock gulped, surely John knew who he was by now? Had three years made him unrecognisable?  
"I'm sorry." Sherlock offered, knowing how pathetic the words sounded. Sorry did not make it all right, sorry did not take back the grief and pain he had put John through, he gulped once more in an attempt to swallow the tension between them. John finished his circle, in front of Sherlock once more and Sherlock got his first proper look at John in three years. His eyes were cold, hard, he was a soldier, a killer once more, his brow was furrowed and his hands did not tremble on the gun he was still pointing at the detective. Sherlock should have cowered in fear at this rough, distant John Watson, instead he felt oddly warmed, a soft fluttering in his chest. John Watson may be wounded, he may be filled with hate and rage and have blood on his hands, but he was alive and until Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes it had not hit him just how much he had missed him.  
  
"Say something." Sherlock pleaded, hands still up in the air, he did not complain at the fact his once best friend was still aiming a weapon at him.  
"Three years." John said, his voice like his eyes, stiff and hardened by the world he'd entered. Sherlock could see the gears in John's head whirring, putting the pieces together, working out that it had been Sherlock's shadow he'd been following all over the world, Sherlock who had pipped him to the post so many times in the hunt.  
"Three long years." Sherlock agreed. "Lower your weapon, I mean you no harm." He instructed. John's eyes slipped from Sherlock's face, to the gun in his hands, he had gotten so used to wielding it in battle, it had become second nature. He put the safety back on and laid it on the kitchen counter.  
  
To Sherlock's surprise it was he who was overwhelmed with the moment, familiar emotions he knew, he'd always known, but couldn't quite bring himself to name there and then stirred in his chest and threatened to spill out of his mouth, they stood at a stalemate, a few feet apart, just staring at each other. It would not be appropriate to tell John those things right now. Instead he pleaded.  
"Get angry." Sherlock begged. "Shout. Throw things. Punch me."  
"I'm too tired." Came John's response.  
"No, no you're not." Sherlock said, closing the distance between them, stopping mere centimetres in front of John, who did not blink, or flinch, or respond at all. He stood there like an ice sculpture. "You are not done yet, John Watson." Sherlock told him firmly. He stared down his slightly crooked nose at John, he would have preferred John to kick off, to scream and hit him and call him every name under the sun, he wanted John to fight. John said nothing.  
  
Sherlock closed the distance between them, laying his forehead against John's he closed his eyes and whispered  
"I missed you." It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to say and having said it he let out a shuddering breath he didn't know he'd been holding on to, it ghosted over John's face and he still remained motionless.  
"Yeah? Well I buried you." He countered, a bite to his voice that stung Sherlock more than a punch ever could.  
"John..." Sherlock breathed, he dared to open his eyes but he did not want to step back now that he could feel John's warmth, they were barely touching but they _were_ touching and in that instant that was the most important thing in the world to Sherlock Holmes. He needed John to forgive him, needed it more than he had ever needed cigarettes or cocaine or a game to play. John did not waiver, even with Sherlock leaning on him, he did not falter, standing as tall as he could, his back straight and his eyes open, staring blankly through Sherlock despite his closeness.  
  
Sherlock had not cried since he spoke to John on the phone on the roof of St Bart's, knowing he may never see him again, knowing so much could go wrong with this plan, not knowing for certain that he would actually survive the fall. He did not want to start again now, but against his will he found tears welling in his eyes, he forced his eyes shut to stop them falling.  
"I owe you a thousand apologies." He whispered. "I knew that you would grieve... it's what people do. I genuinely thought... I hoped... that you would move on." John's lack of reaction spoke volumes and Sherlock took a step back before falling to his knees, the weight of the world on his shoulders finally too much to bear. He bowed his head so far forward that his short curls pressed against John's knees. Seeing John was so painfully real, the thought that he was once so full of life and now seemed so empty was crushing Sherlock's chest. He had done this to him.  
  
He had broken John.  
  
That thought was so much worse than anything he had dealt with thus far.  
  
"I had no idea that you would be so affected." His voice was catching in his throat, and the tears he had been withholding fell as he refused to raise his face. He would not let John see him cry. John said nothing.  
  
The butterfly effect is a whimsical notion that the tiniest event, such as the flapping of a butterfly's delicate wings can spark much larger events such as hurricanes, Sherlock firmly believed this was nonsense, but as he knelt there, knowing John may never forgive him Sherlock sniffed just once and his shoulders shuddered the tiniest bit and that was all it took to break down the walls John had spent three years building up around his heart. John's hand raised ever so slightly and his fingertips brushed Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Yeah well, you better not have used all my bloody teabags." He muttered and Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes darting over John's face to try understand this about-turn of events.  
  
John's eyes were still tired and worn, but the harsh edge was no longer there, replaced by the familiar resigned kindness that was so very very John Watson. His lips were tight in a thin smile. Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh of relief, momentarily winded from the shock.  
"No, there are still a few." He responded, his voice still a tad higher than usual. John nodded slowly.  
"Get up you daft git." He said affectionately, before crossing to the kettle and turning it on. Sherlock shook as he got to his feet, unable to believe it, he knew he was not off the hook, that he would need to explain everything, that they were not really okay, but there was now hope. Hope that it would be okay soon. He collapsed onto the sofa with the effort of it all as John brought through two cups of tea.  
  
"There were snipers." Sherlock blurted as he took his mug from John, who sat in the arm chair he'd always favoured. "On you, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade... If they didn't see me fall they were going to shoot you." John nodded and took a deep breath, just looking at Sherlock, as though he still couldn't quite believe they were really here in 221b talking about this.  
"Yeah I get _why_   you did it... but HOW did you do it?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, I saw you jump... I watched you fall! I took your pulse and... and there was so much blood..." He whispered as though he had not spoke about this to anyone - therapist included.  
"I called in a few favours... the crowd that had gathered? All my men. A cleverly placed laundry hamper meant I survived the fall with minimal damage... the bicycle hitting you was no accident, another of the homeless network. I needed to distract you long enough for someone to get me a blood pack, make me look sufficiently injured, then I lay down and waited for you to come... I've worked on my breathing techniques long enough to know how to slow my pulse right down with the aid of a rubber ball, barely detectable. You're a brilliant doctor... but you were in shock, your hand was trembling. You couldn't have known."  
  
John ran one hand through his hair and nodded very slowly.  
"You couldn't have let me know... afterwards?" He sounded hurt and Sherlock visibly flinched.  
"You may or may not be aware of this fact, but you have been watched very closely since my..." He could not bring himself to say 'death' "departure. Moriarty had men in distant lands who could have had you killed with one phone call. I couldn't risk it. I had Mycroft keep an eye on you all. Well, until you decided to run off and take this on alone." Sherlock did not sound mad, he was oddly proud of John.  
  
"I've been out there, dismantling the network, untangling the web... and you? You've been doing exactly the same thing. You weren't threatened or forced to... you took it upon yourself to do this." He whispered in awe.  
"Yeah well... it had to be done. I didn't know you were out there doing it or I'd have left you to it, you nutter." John sipped at his tea.  
"According to Mycroft, you've been in the same county as me several times... possibly the same street. I only found that out when I returned... I'm glad I didn't know. If I'd have realised you were there... so close... I... I don't know what I'd have done." Sherlock admitted. This evidently hit a little closer to home than John was comfortable with because he squirmed, coughed awkwardly and drained the last of his tea.  
  
"You've done so much more than I asked for..." Sherlock continued. "So much more than I could have ever hoped. You never cease to amaze me... you are fantastic." Sherlock was not used to giving compliments, but they flowed so easily now, for John, only for John. "I am so grateful, and so proud..."  
"Stop." John said firmly. "Don't be proud... I've killed people. There is blood on my hands and it's not something to take pride in." He said stonily but then shook his head knowing that had not been at all the way Sherlock had meant it. "But I appreciate the sentiment." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak once more but John raised a hand to silence him.  
  
"I don't want the gory details, I don't need to hear how you hunted them down, and I certainly don't want to compare notes on how they died." He said with a slight gulp, and Sherlock knew John was not unaffected by his mission. He nodded, he wanted to know everything, but just this once not knowing was okay if it meant respecting John's wishes.  
"Okay." He agreed. John stood up and Sherlock panicked a little.  
"I'm going to nip to Tescos, we've no food in and I could do with a walk to clear my head." John said, causing Sherlock to bite his lip, John clearing his head did not sound like a good thing. "You need anything?" Always caring for others, Sherlock's taut face did not relent. "Ah, cigarettes right? Your usual?" He asked, heading towards the door. He was leaving, and Sherlock didn't know how to stop him.  
  
"You will come back though?" He asked concernedly, he possibly blurted it, he wasn't quite sure. John sighed notably and nodded.  
"Yes, I'll come back. But... just so you know, we're not done talking. There are some... some things that I never said, things that... that I should have said." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've got to work it out in my head first though so... I might be gone a little while." And just like that John left.  
  
Sherlock was unsure what to make of that, he knew what it sounded like, but he could not bring himself to hope that was it. No no, it would likely be some venomous spiel about how Sherlock had hurt them all so much, yes, that was the most likely conclusion. Sherlock did not allow himself to dwell on the treacherously hopeful thought that it may be an amorous confession on John's part. No. He could not hope for that much. His fingers itched for his violin but he could not play with Mrs Hudson downstairs, too big a risk. He craved a cigarette, and fidgeted impatiently. Of course he loved John, surely after they had been through so much together that was inevitable? A natural human flaw?  
  
 _Not a flaw._ His subconscious bit back. _Not a flaw, Mycroft isn't always right._ Because loving John Watson may be wrong in many senses of the word, but it felt as right to Sherlock as the first cigarette of the day, right as a chemistry experiment taking on an opaque hue when it was supposed to, right as picking up a bow and playing. But he could not - could never - expect John Watson to love him back, even if by some miracle he had done once, a man's forgiveness can only stretch so far... but that was fine. Having John as a friend was never second best. He was honoured to be John's friend. So he paced, he moved silently so as not to disturb their beloved landlady, he moved quickly to try shake off the hope swelling in his chest, and he moved swiftly as though he had a destination when in reality he was just going back and forth around the living room.  
  
Sherlock was unsure whether 3 minutes had passed or 3 hours when he finally heard the door downstairs go signalling John's return. Like a puppy eager for his master to come home, Sherlock positioned himself in front of the door once more. John looked gravely serious as he re-entered the flat.  
"Welcome back?" Sherlock offered, as his loyal friend slipped off his shoes and coat.  
"Hm." John said non-committally, still obviously deep in thought. He rifled through one of the bags (the left one slightly larger than their former usual weekly food shop, Sherlock noted absently. Hair dye most likely?) and threw a packet of cigarettes at Sherlock's chest, he caught it with ease.  
"Thank you..." Sherlock said softly, gratefully, trying to get across that it was not just the nicotine fix he was thanking John for. John nodded mutely and put the kettle back on, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.  
  
Sherlock was decidedly nervous, his brain had calculated dozens of possible outcomes for whatever it was John needed to say, and one unlikely scenario was that John had had enough and though he was pleased by Sherlock's return, he didn't want them to live together any more, or work together. That thought stung, and despite Sherlock's knowledge of John's mind, knowing this was not the way John's brain worked, it still frightened him slightly.  
  
He attempted to engage John in conversation.  
"I didn't ask... how is everyone?" He asked, crinkling the cellophane on the cigarettes as he unwrapped them. John had never minded him smoking in the flat, so he slipped the white stick from its brethren and into his mouth, fumbling in his shirt pocket for his lighter. He was Sherlock Holmes for goodness sake, he'd never 'fumbled' in his life, honestly!  
"Mrs Hudson got that new hip..." John spoke absently, his mind on other things. "Molly's been very supportive... I'm assuming she was in on it?" He added as an afterthought.  
"Yes." Sherlock admitted, his voice tinged with guilt, he had needed Molly, he hadn't wanted to compromise her friendship with John, but she had been forced to lie to him on Sherlock's behalf. Sherlock took an extra long drag before exhaling this time.  
  
"Thought so, no wonder the poor thing's been so skittish... Greg lost his job." John continued.  
"What? How?" Sherlock seemed surprised to say the least, the faintest hint of a smile flicked across John's face.  
"Shouldn't laugh really." He mused. "After your death, Anderson was slagging you off... full of himself as usual, said he'd called it... always known you were a nutter... then he said you deserved what you got and well... Greg may or may not have decked him for it." Sherlock felt an odd swell of pride with that statement, he knew Lestrade had his doubts about Sherlock, but even if he thought Sherlock was a fake and a fraud... he'd still defended him.  
"Yes well, Anderson's an idiot." Sherlock muttered, taking another drag of his cigarette, trying not to feel guilty that Lestrade had lost his job, he had far too many things to feel guilty about as it was.  
"Like you said though, Mycroft's been keeping an eye on us... should have been obvious I suppose when the charges were mysteriously dropped and Greg got a surprise job offer... something a bit hush hush in the British Government." Sherlock would never admit it, but he was grateful for his brother sometimes. Just sometimes. John had finished making his tea, he had not made Sherlock a mug this time and kept his distance, stood across the kitchen from Sherlock, leaning his weight against the counter.  
  
"And... you?" Sherlock dared to ask.  
"Mycroft made sure your half of the rent was paid every month, meaning I got to keep this place..." John mused into his mug. "He might be a prat, but he has his uses." John said, echoing Sherlock's thoughts exactly. There was a long moment of silence, John sipping his tea and Sherlock finishing his cigarette.  
"What was it you needed to tell me?" Sherlock dared to ask, flicking his cigarette stub into the sink, it hissed slightly at the contact with water before fizzling out and dying. John took a deep shuddering breath.  
"Right well... I'm not saying this to hurt you." He started and Sherlock instinctively tensed - right then, this was going to hurt. "I'm just... saying it for the record, I'm not expecting anything to come of it... you can delete it as soon as I've said it but... yeah I just... you really ought to know..." He trailed off awkwardly and Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh.  
"John, you're rambling." He said pointedly. John nodded and took another deep breath.  
  
"Okay yeah right... uh... okay... so..." One last deep breath before he said. "Just so you know, I was in love with you." Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, he could pinpoint the exact word that broke his own heart.  
" _Was_." He whispered softly, regaining his composure enough to open his eyes, staring at John who was gazing into his cup awkwardly.  
"Hm?"  
"You said ' _was_ ', past tense... you _were_ in love with me?" Sherlock breathed. He couldn't blame him, of course he couldn't, there had been too much said and done for John's affectionate regard of him to endure, that did not make it hurt any less. John's eyes remained down-turned, as though he'd find the answer in his mug. "Were..." Sherlock repeated, leaning back against the wall opposite John, laying his head back against the cool tile.  
"Possibly didn't phrase that well..." John murmured.  
  
"And now?" Sherlock demanded, staring at the ceiling as intently as John gazed into his coffee mug.  
"Sherlock..." John said in a warning tone.  
"I need to hear you say it." Sherlock hissed, clenching his fist so tightly his fingernails dug into his palm. "What do you feel for me now? Anger? Hatred? Pity? Say it and be done with it." Sherlock ordered.  
"For Christ’s sake Sherlock!" John said, only barely able to restrain his volume so as not to make Mrs Hudson think he was yelling at a dead man.  
  
"Right now? I'm ecstatic that I've got my best friend back, I'm mortified that I've killed in your name, I'm fucking furious at you for faking your own death and leaving us all behind!" He fumed and Sherlock absorbed the venom as best he could, until John spoke next. "And so help me god, I'm still as in love with you as I ever was!" He snapped. Sherlock's eyes shot open, he wasn't aware he'd closed them again. John put his mug down on the counter and turned away. "Just... just delete it." He instructed, the pain evident in his voice as Sherlock's brain struggled to catch up with his heart, which having just been shattered had leapt back together, the pieces falling over one another as he tried to process this.  
  
It was simple. John was hurting, and Sherlock did not want John to hurt. He crossed the kitchen in two quick strides, and only touched John to turn him round to face him. Then he did not touch, he was very much in John's personal space, the shorter man pressing himself back against the counter and watching the detective with searching blue eyes. Sherlock raised his hand, blessedly free of gloves for once, and his fingers hovered over John's cheek, close enough to feel but not truly touching him. Sherlock was not certain he'd earned permission to touch, but their bodies were millimetres apart. John's tongue darted out and whet his lips... expectantly? Instinctively?  
"Still?" Sherlock breathed softly. John nodded, almost imperceptibly, but he did nod and that was all the permission Sherlock needed, he captured John's lips with his own, hand cupping John's cheek. For a split second John did nothing, whether that was from shock or something else, Sherlock could not be certain, all he knew was that when John came to his senses he gave as good as he got.  
  
It was by no means a gentle first kiss, five years of built up tension, three years of separation, apologies and confessions and a silent plea for 'more' packed into one kiss. Sherlock's tongue searched for forgiveness, John's teeth bit at years of grief. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, still rough from being abused with bleach, he pulled Sherlock closer towards him, not knowing where his body ended and Sherlock's began, he didn't care, for now he was content with this heated, desperate snog against the kitchen counter.  
  
Sherlock tasted of fresh cigarette smoke but John tasted of warm and sweet tea, of something new and fascinating and of something familiar and safe at the same time, whatever it was, it was intoxicating and Sherlock deepened the kiss in a bid to get more of it until John invaded all of his senses, until the only thought ringing in his head was  
' _John. John. John_ _._ ' All good things have to end, and their first kiss (which was, as far as first kisses go, fairly epic by both accounts) ended when the need for oxygen (boring) won out. Panting and a little breathless, they just held each other close, foreheads pressed together, letting it all sink in. It was poor, shell-shocked John who came round first, the high from the hormones dissipating as fear crept in.  
  
And then Sherlock was grinning, like a cat who'd got the cream (or the bird or the mouse or whatever cat-like metaphor you prefer), he was still holding onto John rather intimately when he announced  
"Oh you are _brilliant_." Then he let go, just as suddenly as he'd swept in, he let go, leaving John feeling oddly empty. He darted across the kitchen, speaking as he went. "Noticed it when you came in, didn't even think... of course!" He zeroed in on the shopping bags, digging through the slightly larger one, ignoring the black hair dye John had so thoughtfully purchased. "This conversation was going to go one of two ways and you... you planned for both. Very clever." He straightened up, clasping the bottle of lubricant and box of condoms John had purchased in his right hand.  
  
"I didn't expect..." John started almost nervously, quite embarrassed. Trust Sherlock to notice something that small, John had almost forgotten what it felt like to be seen straight through, you could not hide things from Sherlock Holmes.  
"Of course you didn't _expect._ " Sherlock breathed, still smiling from ear to ear. "You _hoped_. Fantastic thing hope, dangerous thing... hope doesn't die, even when it possibly should." He ranted, he sounded so impressed, so pleased. John was still a little bewildered, trying to follow the latest dramatic twist of the day. "Your room or mine?" Sherlock asked, glancing at the instructions on the condoms.  
  
"Christ Sherlock, now!? Not right away, surely! Shouldn't we wait until..." Sherlock looked genuinely wounded at these words, he looked up at the army doctor with a pained expression.  
"Oh John... don't you think you and I have waited long enough?" His voice was long and low, John recognised the tone. It was Sherlock's 'could be dangerous' voice, the one John had never been able to resist and he felt his heart skip a beat or two. Sherlock extended his free hand, offering it to John. This was insane. Absolutely bonkers. So he had no idea why he reached out and took Sherlock's hand, or why he uttered  
"Your room then." and blindly followed the detective into his bedroom, though at the bedroom doorway he had a moment of doubt.  
  
Not over what they were about to do, no, that seemed like an amazing, fascinating, and truthfully painfully arousing idea. No. His doubts were about the room, he didn't realise until he stood on the hardwood threshold just why. He hadn't entered this room since before Sherlock fell, it was just a bedroom, he knew that, but it had remained untouched. Countless sleepless nights, in the days he'd been depressed and unmotivated, he'd thought about giving in and going to rest in Sherlock's bed but had loitered at this same threshold, unable to cross into the heartbreaking emptiness of Sherlock's room. All this hit him in the space of the second it took Sherlock to cross to the bed, put the supplies on the beside table and look at him slightly perplexed. He shook it off, it was fine. Just a bedroom now. He took a deep breath before walking up to Sherlock.  
  
And then all hell broke loose. There was no hesitation, no more barriers, no more waiting. John put forth no great ceremony in launching himself at Sherlock, kissing, biting, groping. Sherlock did not seem surprised in the slightest by John's intensity, returning each fevered kiss with one of his own, quickly losing track of whose tongue was whose. John's wandering hands found Sherlock's arse and pulled their hips together, grinding roughly induced a slightly startled groan from the lanky detective, one that was quickly swallowed between them.  
  
Someone pushed when the other pulled and they fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, John quick to gain the upper hand by pinning Sherlock beneath him, fumbling at overly fancy shirt buttons while refusing to break the messy kiss. The fact they were now both sporting rather impressive erections heightened the sense of urgency as John clawed at Sherlock's clothes. The shirt didn't come off completely, that would require moving, instead it lay open, exposing Sherlock's milk-white torso. Three years had done nothing for his tan. John trailed his fierce kisses lower, down Sherlock's jawline, over his neck, nipping none too gently at his collar bone.  
  
It was only when John's hands flew to the zipper on Sherlock's trousers that Sherlock spoke up.  
"John." He murmured, voice dripping with sexual intent. John 'hmm'd in approval, he'd never hated his name, but he'd never much liked it, it was boring, common, ordinary, yet tumbling from Sherlock's lips in the heat of the moment it made John feel as though he was the only 'John' in the world, all Sherlock wanted, all he could see, he tugged the zipper down hastily. Sherlock's hands rested on John's waist, fingers cradling the small of his back. "John." He repeated, a little firmer.  
"What?" John asked, working the button.  
"Stop." Sherlock ordered, and John froze.  
  
 **Stop**. Did not compute. Panic and shame, worry and fear. Sherlock looked addled to say the least, his pupils wide as saucers, his lips plump and kiss bruised, small purple love bites standing out on his neck, not to mention the fact he was hard as stone beneath John's hands. He had to be enjoying this. Why 'stop'? John's confusion was apparent on his face, Sherlock raised his right hand to cup John's cheek, fingertips just brushing his cheekbones.  
  
"Slow down." Sherlock breathed. "Slow down." He repeated, voice unusually soft and kind. "I'm not going anywhere." He promised. For a split second John wanted to shout at him, wanted to be angry at the accusation - he wasn't some clingy teenager for god's sake.  
  
Then the enormity of the situation kicked in, Sherlock was right, he was terrified of losing him again. Sherlock sat up slowly, knocking John back onto his ankles still straddling the absentee lover. His thumb grazed John's bottom lip as the mood changed, their eyes locked. John gulped and nodded, ever so slightly.  
  
Yes, sex was going to happen and yes, they were hard and horny but they had all the time in the world and right now the world was in very narrow focus, John focused on Sherlock's right hand caressing his cheek, his left hand strong and firm at the small of his back, the contrast between the light, delicate, tentative touch of Sherlock's fingers ghosting his features, and the grounding stability of the palm on his back. Sherlock rose carefully, reversing the situation as gently as though John were made of glass, lowering him onto his back and hovering over him.  
  
He popped John's buttons slowly, exposed each stretch of skin and absorbed all new data with his eyes. He shucked John free of his shirt and traced his fingertips first over the scar on John's shoulder, kissing it lightly. He approved of this scar. It had, in a rather abstract way, brought John to London. John's breath hitched slightly as he realised what Sherlock was doing when the detective slid lower, scattering kisses as he went. His fingertips found the second scar, the one on John's abdomen. He approved of this one too, John was a brave man.  
  
"Stabbed in Amadora." He whispered, running his index finger over the inch long white gash. Mycroft had told him that, but Sherlock would have been able to conclude as much anyway, very particular striations on the edge of the scar. It was not a particularly large scar - the blade had been long and thin. The wound wound have been deep. It would have bled out a lot. Sherlock kissed it softly, silently praising John's bravery - a wound like that... he must have known how close to death he came. Yes, he definitely approved of this scar too. He unbuckled John's belt.  
  
He removed John's trousers with great care and ease, completely ignored his lover's evident arousal and drew himself back up John's body, kissing him on the lips and settling for nuzzling his neck as he slipped his hand down John's thigh. Down. Not up. His fingers sought out the other major wound, above the knee. A bullet wound most definitely, even if Mycroft hadn't informed him John had been shot, Sherlock would have been able to tell without looking. The bullet went in from above - a taller person than John had fired it... no. No, correction, John had been sitting down for the shot. Tied up? Sherlock kissed John's collar bone lightly as he added  
"Captured and shot in Florida." In a soft murmur.  
  
"Stop it." John muttered, trailing his hands down Sherlock's sides and nudging at his open fly once more.  
"No." Sherlock said firmly, deciding that he approved of the final major scar and helping John slip his trousers down over his bony hips, he shed his socks while he was at it so they were both laying together in their underwear, Sherlock atop John. Sherlock kissed his mouth once more to silence John a moment longer while he explored the last of his scars, John bit his lip none-too-gently in protest and finally Sherlock abandoned the effort - he'd have time later to explore John's battle wounds.  
  
"What is a war hero..." Sherlock mumbled, breaking the kiss and angling his neck as John kissed his jawline. "Without his decoration?" He mused, hand leaving John's second bullet injury and sliding up John's thigh, gripping his erection through his boxers. John couldn't help the slight moan and the buck of his hips as the touch hit home. The moment that their eyes met seemed to intensify it all, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and shoulders to stabilise himself, remind himself this was real. Another kiss, long and lazy, interspersed with the occasional gasp from one or the other.  
  
"Forgive me." Sherlock whispered breathily against John's lips. His head abuzz with the sensation of Sherlock's hand flicking over his cock, John could not think straight.  
"For what?" He murmured, his left hand tracing its way down Sherlock's back and cupping his arse cheek tightly. Sherlock chuckled softly, amused by the fact John was too dazed to focus on what had led them into bed, he pulled his hand up and slipped his fingers under the waistband of John's boxers, the doctor shuddered slightly. Sherlock rubbing him through his boxers had been one thing, the feeling of flesh against flesh was entirely another, it was amazing but it was too much. He lifted his hips twice more into the tight circle of Sherlock's fist before mumbling  
  
"It's not going to last if we keep up like this." Sherlock purred in agreement, John had barely touched him (though he had been insistently rutting against him in response) but John was right, no sense getting too carried away and ending it all before it began. He hooked his thumb in John's boxers and slid them down and off, then his own. Sherlock took a moment to survey the doctor's arousal - average. More proof that John Watson was an ordinary man. And weren't ordinary men just wonderful? The things a typical, unassuming person such as John, was capable of... they made Sherlock's head spin. Drawing his eyes up, John seemed to be enjoying taking in the sight of Sherlock just as much as Sherlock was of John, his blue eyes were dark and filled with lust - Sherlock's spinning head ended up coupled with a racing heart.  
  
John sat up to meet him for another kiss, hungry this time, eager but not desperate. Sherlock manoeuvred them, pulling John over so he pinned him. Their erections brushed and John was only capable of fighting back the moan due to confusion as Sherlock's hand darted out and grabbed the lubricant from the bedside table. He pressed it into John's palm and kissed him deeper, tongue parting John's willing lips far too easily. John's grip on the bottle tensed as he realised the implications.  
"You..." John started.  
"Yes." Sherlock panted. "It's fine." He gave a nod.  
"Why... I thought you'd want to be on top?" John asked, flushed and slightly bewildered.  
"It's not about what I _want_." Sherlock said softly. "It's about what you _need_. I've swept back in here today and knocked everything for a loop... I've turned your world upside down today. You need that sense of control." Sherlock explained and for a moment there was silence as John mulled this over.  
"Yeah..." He mumbled then shook his head. "Nope, not happening." He flipped them once more, leading them perilously close to the edge of the bed, and pushed the lube at a slightly confused Sherlock above him.  
  
"Didn't have you pegged as a willing bottom, John. Why?" He asked, surprised, but not enough to look a gift horse in the mouth, he flipped the bottle cap open. The click of the lid made John shiver in anticipation.  
"Honestly?" He asked as Sherlock kissed his neck then sat up, and made his way down John's body (they both shifted slightly to the left, so neither of them was in danger of falling off of the bed). "I don't trust myself." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he played with the slick substance on his fingers (' _Mental note: interesting viscosity, examine later._ ') John took a deep breath.  
  
"I don't know whether I want to make love to you for coming home, or fuck you six ways from Sunday for leaving in the first place." John's voice was laden with guilt and Sherlock almost couldn't bear that reasoning. John didn't trust himself not to hurt Sherlock - even if he probably deserved it. Sherlock had already hurt John so much, yet John trusted him not to hurt him here. He kissed John deeply.  
"Do you have any idea..." He rasped when they broke apart. "How much I've missed you? You _never_ fail to surprise me..." John didn't know quite how to respond to that one, so remained quiet as Sherlock lay himself down on his front and nudged John's legs apart. He kissed the inside of John's left thigh, soft, wet and open mouthed as he swept two slick fingers between John's cheeks. He enjoyed the brief quiver that shot through John's entire body as one fingertip brushed his hole.  
  
He expected resistance and was pleasantly surprised when his first fingertip pressed into John with ease. He didn't stop the shallow, lazy kisses along John's inner thigh (he tried to move them upwards slightly but it caused John to tense, so he kept them low, didn't want to overstimulate him). John squirmed slightly as Sherlock pushed his middle finger in deeper.  
"Okay?" The detective asked, wriggling his finger carefully.  
"Yes, just a bit... strange." John admitted.  
"We can stop... I'd be happy to get you off with my hand or mouth if this is too much." Sherlock offered, stilling his finger and offering another soft kiss to his lover's leg. He wasn't just trying to be kind, Sherlock desperately wanted this to go further but he'd have no objection to getting John off in a different manner, because it wasn't about him, it was about John - about proving to John that he was here and here to stay and if that meant the sex wasn't reciprocal then that was fine, he probably deserved it.  
"No... no this is... it's fine." John mumbled with a slight pant. "Keep going."  
  
It was awkward to say the least, whispered apologies and pained gasps, at one point during the insertion of Sherlock's second finger, John even kicked Sherlock (more out of instinct, it bloody hurt - he did say sorry for it) in fact both of them were starting to have serious doubts until Sherlock found John's prostate (purely by accident). John's body rocketed forward into an arch and a deep groan.  
"Oh god." He mumbled in shock. "Jesus... that was... bloody hell."  
"Good?" Sherlock asked curiously, he'd never had reason to explore his own and John's reaction was breath-taking, he nodded weakly as Sherlock gently brushed his finger tips over the sensitive spot. John made an odd noise, somewhere between a mewl and a cry - if Sherlock hadn't known John was rapt with pleasure he'd assume the doctor was in pain. He kissed John's thigh again and slipped in a well lubricated third finger pulling them back so he was only shallow inside him, working John open gently.  
  
The ring of muscle clung tight to his fingers and Sherlock didn't know whether to envy John or pity him, it didn't look comfortable - but John himself seemed fine, his head thrown back and mouth slightly open, pressing his hips down to push Sherlock in further. Obediently, he pumped his three fingers in and out, grazing John's prostate but not overplaying it. One day, in the not too distant future, he was going to enjoy making John orgasm just from this... actually no, fingers in and mouth on sounded better.... actually no, well... there were a million possibilities and combinations. Sherlock wanted to try all of them, even if it took them 40 years.  
  
"Okay." John whispered softly, the back of his head buried in the pillow, when Sherlock continued (John had been babbling incoherent nonsense for a good five minutes) he said it again, a little louder. "Okay."  
"Okay?" Sherlock queried with a raised eyebrow, not entirely certain what John meant.  
"Okay!" John confirmed, squirming at the mercy of Sherlock's probing fingers. It took Sherlock a long moment to understand.  
"Oh..." He said as realisation dawned on him. John was ready. "Oh, _o_ _kay_." He agreed, dragging his fingers slowly from John's arse. He had to lean over John to reach the box of condoms, chest to chest. John darted forward and latched himself onto Sherlock's neck, a quick hard suck sure to leave a mark and definitely leaving Sherlock trembling slightly as he pulled back. His fingers fumbled with the box but he managed to produce a little foil packet. His fingers were slippy and he ended up opening it with his teeth. John would at a later date tell him that you're not really supposed to do that, but he was currently transfixed with watching Sherlock - put together, level-headed Sherlock, shuddering with anticipation, falling apart as he rolled the condom over himself.  
  
"You're beautiful." John managed, weakly as Sherlock applied more lube to his palm. Sherlock himself seemed slightly startled at the words, his tense expression softening somewhat. Sherlock was not used to compliments, he only ever received them from John really, and he'd gone three long years without John's voice.  
"You're sure about this?" He asked cautiously, John only nodded. Slicking himself up felt strange through the condom - he made a mental note that they both needed to get tested: Sherlock may have been celibate the past three years but he'd stuck himself with needles from god knows where years ago, and John? Sherlock could not imagine that John had lived as a monk these past three years. He kissed John's knee gently before lifting his hips to rest against his thighs.  
  
The first moment it all seemed impossible, John tensed and resisted and from this position Sherlock could not really reach any of John's body to offer gentle reassurance by kissing, instead his thumb rubbed small circles on his hip. The pain was slightly sobering, bringing them both down from their highs just enough so this wouldn't be over in a minute or two. It took an age for John to relax enough for Sherlock to press forward without causing any discomfort, the tip of his dick only just inside John.  
  
The connection was not an easy one to make but once made it was unbeatable, incomparable to any previous sexual experience on Sherlock's part certainly. He inched slowly downward, stretching John around him until he was fully seated. Their eyes did not leave the other's the whole time, John's slightly wide in surprise and darkened to the blue of a stormy sea, Sherlock's catching the light like pools of mercury and flashing every so often with a pulse of arousal.  
  
It was John who moved first, lifting his leg to hook his ankle over Sherlock's calf. A small motion - a massive implication. He was giving Sherlock the green light to move, and move he did. Slow, small oscillations of his hips, only withdrawing an inch or so before delving back in - he'd waited this long to be inside John and even a withdrawal of six or so inches felt too far away so he kept up the short deep thrusts, barely leaving John's prostate, bringing John far too close to the edge far too fast.  
"Sherlock." He panted breathlessly, trying to sound out a warning but failing miserably. When Sherlock did not heed the minor threat, John ground his hips down into the mattress, pulling away from Sherlock so the detective had to chase him back.  
  
It continued like that, John setting the depth from below, Sherlock setting the pace above until Sherlock got the message. _It's okay_. He thought he heard John say. _I love you, it's fine._ He heard that so clearly he had to pause and look at John's lips to check that he had not actually said it out loud. He was going mad if he genuinely believed he could hear John's thoughts, but being inside him... being part of him - it made him feel as though he could, some sort of symbiotic sentience leading the way.  
  
He withdrew properly for the first time, leaving only his head inside John, before pressing back, quickly and smoothly as it hit him. He was having sex with John Hamish Watson - and all the pain, all the heartache, all the suffering - none of it mattered right there and then at that exact moment. Sure, he wasn't off the hook, he wouldn't be for a long time, emotionally he'd be paying for this one til his dying day but right now all was good, all was forgiven.  
  
Oh god, the condom was torture, he could feel John's heat, the slick and welcome warmth through the sheer film of latex but he wanted more. They'd have time of course. Eventually. They had all the time in the world. John had noticed his brief foray into the emotions that had lead to this situation, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and brought him closer, so they were laid together, flush, changing the angle of the detective inside him and earning a surprised gasp from them both.  
"Stop thinking." John whispered, raising his hips to meet Sherlock once more. Sherlock hesitated only a second longer before throwing his head back and emitting an earth shattering groan that signalled he'd given in to utter abandon.  
  
He started rolling his pelvis earnestly, swift and deep, fast and hard - if John's nails digging into his shoulders were anything to go by, he was doing it right, and if the convulsions deep within John, pulling him deeper inside, were any signal, he was doing it very very right. Gasps and moans only half articulated on their tongues punctured the air. What should have been 'Sherlock' melted into an incoherent blur of 'Sher-oh god...' and 'John!' became 'J-Ah ah... ' as brain function gave way to bodily needs, as mental capacity became clouded by the slap of sweat-slicked skin, the clenching of internal muscles and the building promise of an impending orgasm.  
  
Sherlock would later blame/thank the condom's thin barrier for him holding it together just a few seconds longer than John who quivered and came with a shout loud enough to wake the dead, splashing his seed onto their chests and stomachs as he fought for breath. Sherlock straightened his back, slipped his hands down and grasped John's buttocks as he tipped himself over the precipice, filling the condom with semen and the air with a strangled cry. The white light pressing at his eyeballs and the pulsing heat fleeing his body felt strangely unfamiliar to Sherlock, and it took him a good minute to recover, just staring down at John with wide, surprised eyes.  
  
He pulled out and tied a knot in the condom, throwing it vaguely in the direction of his waste paper basket before collapsing next to John, chest still heaving. John sat up slightly, using the dusty tissues on Sherlock's bedside table to clean himself off, and then moved on to Sherlock, who was still shivering post-orgasmically, John dabbed at the small droplets of come smeared on his chest. John's touch seemed to burn into his overly sensitive skin and he murmured softly in evident discomfort.  
"I don't like to be touched afterwards." Sherlock told him, weakly. He always had this problem, his body too flooded with hormones and chemicals to tolerate even the lightest touch after such stimulation. It had never been an issue before though, he'd never wanted to hold someone after the fact... in fact he usually wanted out as soon as possible, even via masturbation he could not stand to be touched shortly after orgasm.  
"Right... so it's a no on the cuddling?" John asked curiously, withdrawing his hand.  
"Just... give me five minutes." Sherlock pleaded. So they continued to lie still, in a comfortable almost-silence, broken only by two thundering hearts and four lungs desperately drinking in the cold, stale air.  
  
When Sherlock spoke next it was in his usual 'Pay attention to me, I'm a bloody genius' tone, but his words were quite the opposite.  
"Oh I am an idiot!" He hissed.  
"Yes." John agreed lazily, turning on his side to face the detective, who looked as debauched as John felt, normally pale face flushed, eyes blown wide and curly hair akimbo. "Why this time?"  
"I didn't say it... I got so excited at the prospect of sex with you, I forgot to say it." He scolded himself. "In case there's any doubt left in that fantastic head of yours, I love you too." He breathed, John nodded slowly.  
"Okay." Sherlock looked very stern, his nerve endings had stopped screeching at him just about enough for him to take John's hand firmly.  
"If you need more proof... take a look at my passports." He swore. "I needed aliases while I was away. Mostly sentimentality, somewhat due to the fact that John is a very common name and easy to blend in with... I was John Freeman, John Benedict and John Harrison... among others." He told John seriously, John did not look comforted, soothed or relieved. He looked pained, stressed and uncomfortable: realising that Sherlock had suffered from being apart too made it so much harder to be angry about it. He squeezed at Sherlock's palm and just nodded.  
  
"I'm not forgiven, am I?" Sherlock asked softly. John sighed gently.  
"It's not that easy, Sherlock." He said honestly, Sherlock ran one hand down his chest own cautiously, testing his own sensitivity levels. "We'll get there... in time." His voice sounded hopeful and Sherlock nodded, shifted closer on the bed and wrapped his arms around the shorter man, over-sensitised skin crying out in protest. "Tomorrow's going to be hell."  
"Tomorrow?"  
"We'll have to tell people you're back... Mrs Hudson, Lestrade..." John trailed off awkwardly.  
"Why tomorrow? It's only early... I could get it sorted this evening and come back by tonight?" Sherlock suggested, palms flat on the small of John's back.  
  
"It's been a long day." John murmured. "I've no intention of leaving this bedroom for the next... eighteen hours or so. We'll face it tomorrow. Together. Okay?" He placed a kiss on Sherlock's chest, earning a slight squirm from the hypersensitive mess that was Sherlock Holmes.  
"Fine." Sherlock agreed, already going stir crazy at the thought of not being able to leave the bedroom for nearly a day.  
  
John's hand wandered down and squeezed Sherlock's arse with obvious intent.  
"Stop thinking." He warned again. Sherlock smiled, despite himself. Okay. Maybe it wasn't so terrible, spending eighteen hours in bed with John Watson, the soldier who'd waged a war on the world entirely of his own accord, and won.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Cumbernuts asked: If it's okay, I thought something cute, post-fall, Sherlock is out killing Moriartys web and shizz, and after a bit he realises John has been about, doing the same to avenge Sherlock, they meet and Sherlock is just overwhelmed with how amazing John is or something?
> 
> A/n: MASSIVE apologies to cumbernuts, I'm so sorry it took so long to get this written. I hope you like it and uhm... yeah. Sorry again.
> 
> The fabulous NekoJilly ( http://www.fanfiction.net/u/3639579/NekoJilly ) has also translated A One Man Army into French aswell, you can read it here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9501427/1/A-One-Man-Army-FR


End file.
